


Remembering Newt Scamander

by thesmallestship



Category: Fantastic Beasts and Where to Find Them (Movies), Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Character Development, Character Study, M/M, Non-Canon Relationship
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-11-27
Updated: 2016-11-27
Packaged: 2018-09-02 11:03:51
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 7,209
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8665156
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thesmallestship/pseuds/thesmallestship
Summary: Gellert Grindelwald leaves Percival Graves to die in a place where time itself has abandoned him. With the help of Newt Scamander, MACUSA tracks down Graves on the verge of death. After his rescue, Graves is sent on a good will mission abroad to help the Ministry with national security threats, where he meets Newt Scamander. This is the story of his recovery from the edge of death, and his second chance at life.





	1. Introduction

**Author's Note:**

> Ay more tags to be added. Hopping on this ship quick, hope more people decide to write. 
> 
> Interested in studying how such an important person in MACUSA was able to be abducted and imitated without anyone discovering faux-Graves. This thing has legs of its own and could go anywhere, so if you have recommendations or requests, hit ya girl up in the comments and there is a high probability it'll show up in the next chapter.

“So it basically puts you to sleep?

“Not at all, Madame. In fact, it keeps you in a state of semi-awakeness for months upon end, reliving old memories and feeling. It thrives by experiencing every different feeling possible from your past. Memories that have deep emotional attachment can be played over and over again.” A boy is speaking with immense fascination up above. He pauses. “Vox is rare. They’re usually deep underground, decomposing the memories of bugs and the like. Grindlewald must have surfaced this one.”

“A parasite? So it sucks the memories from whoever falls into it? Can’t you just pull yourself out?” A woman’s voice, getting louder.

A smooth, nervous sounding laugh. “You could try, but this stuff is more powerful than ten hippogriffs when you pull against it. The more you struggle, the more emerged you get. And it doesn’t suck the memories out of you. It just makes you relive different moments over and over again, without respite. The stronger the feelings of the host, the bigger it grows.” A pause. “This is bigger than any of the ones I’ve ever seen in books.” The voice is soft, no longer curious, but edging on sad. “It’s supposed to be one of the most exhausting things in the world. Most people never recover, even after rescue.” 

_What a funny voice._

He hears them whisper all around him, and he relaxes more. The boy seems to know about them.

_Maybe I’ll finally have some company._

“And that… Sopho-rat thinks Graves is in here?” The woman speaks up again.

 _I recognize that voice._ His presidents face flows through his head, and he’s tugged back into a memory. He tries to wake up from it, to resist and listen to the conversation above, but he’s so tired. He opens his mouth and sand begins to fill. He closes it.  
 

“The Sophoculus. This is the spot. Let’s just see…” Some whispering from the sand around him, and above the boy is whispering some spell. And everything is buzzing around him. He feels his skin being pulled off. _Is that the sand?_

When he sees the boy, he’s so tired, he doesn’t have time to take a good look. He doesn’t remember this memory.

 _I would have remembered you_.

He tries to open his mouth but nothing comes out except for a wheeze, his lungs hoarse from lack of use. He recognizes Madame Picquery, and some other aurors from the division. The face directly above him is a mystery, though. He’s being forced to drink something, and trying to swallow, but suddenly he’s so tired he can’t concentrate on anything. His eyes close while the buzzing grows louder. Shouting ensues around him.

 “Graves!”

* * *

 

Percival Graves is in the American Wizarding Infirmary for two weeks, comatose. A young wizard assures all of the expert healthcare professionals that the man simply needs to let his body rest after being exposed to the dangerous parasite Vox (an insect, sand-like substance that none of the doctors have heard of), however skepticism remains high that Graves will wake up at all. His limbs were near transparent by the time the rescue team found him, he had lost a severe amount of weight, and multiple potions were created in order just to keep him alive and restore his physical substance.  

When Graves finally does open his eyes, no one is in the room. He doesn’t try to move. He’s been here before, many times. _Which time is it?_ He blinks slowly.

_After the robbery?_

He tries to twitch his hands, which seem to be fine. Not burnt.

_The fight with the giant?_

He glances down at his ribcage, which does not appear to be bandaged. Graves continues down this check list of his memories for a few minutes before coming to an uncomfortable realization.

_I don’t remember this._

This room, the glaring harshness of the lights, it seems wrong. It seems too real, and yet not as real as any of his memories. He struggles for breath, unable to believe he is alive and awake, but a nurse notices his conscious struggling and calls for help. After that it’s an array of blurry noise and excitement. He falls back into unconsciousness.

The second time he comes to, he actually wakes up. He does so intensely, bending over and gagging and breathing in with such ferocity that once again, an alarmed nurse runs to call for help. His eyes are looking everywhere around the room, and he looks like a mad man. Thoughts run through his head so quickly he can’t keep tracking of anything, as he catalogues his surroundings and his weak state of mind and body. He remembers Grindlewald, and he’s searching for his wand, but it’s not there. The villain had broken it. Shaking, he tears the sheets away from his body and slides his feet over the bed.

“You’re going to want to sit down, son. You’ve been asleep for a long time, and you won’t be able to stand by yourself for a while I reckon.” An aged doctor is chastising him from the door, worry etched into her face. But he’s already sliding weight onto his feet, gritting his teeth at the effort. He reaches out to the wall for support.

“W…” A croak escapes his lips, and he spots a glass on his bed side table. He drinks the glass in one go. He feels a sort of calm settle in his stomach, and he leans against the bed.

_This is surreal. Less real than the memories._

He considers that everything feels rather muted. Graves watches as the doctor sits down in a chair across from the bed. “You took a rough tumble. How are you feeling, Percival?”

He watches the doctor with suspicion and apathy. “Fine.” The doctor gives him a reprimanding look. The type of look that says ‘you just woke up from a month long coma and you look like a crazy person and you were being devoured by memory eating sand, but you’re fine?’

But Grave’s legs itch to break into a run. His lungs thirst to walk outside and breathe in fresh air untainted by itching, eating sand. He wants to eat a steak. A salad. Fruit. Anything.

His stomach rumbles. “Hungry.” The doctor smiles, as if that’s a better answer, and with a wave of her hand sends some aides to fetch him a meal.

“Mhmm, I bet. What about your energy? Are you still tired?” Graves stares at the doctor, giving the smallest shake of his head. “Weak?” He doesn’t respond. “In pain at all?” He shakes his head.

She writes down symptoms as she talks with him, listing off some rudimentary questions, which Graves answers to the best of his ability whilst also hoping to be released as soon as possible. If he lies on a couple questions, no one could blame him. The doctor doesn’t seem to be fooled either way.

He barely pays attention, overwhelmed by hunger. He’s hungry for real food. He’s hungry to live new experiences. He’s starving for revenge.  

As the questionnaire nears its end, he’s brought a small bowl of fruit, some pudding, and toast with butter. It’s the most delicious meal he’s eaten in a long time, and for now, that’s good enough.

* * *

 

The next day, Madame President Picquery visits him. It’s a difficult conversation.

First she apologizes for not realizing he had been abducted. The guilt is etched into her face with new wrinkles; tarnishes on her previously smooth skin. He says it’s fine. She says sometimes he comes off as unapproachable, and his lack of personal relations in the ministry made him an easy target for Grindlewald to assume. He doesn’t respond.

She then tells him an amazing story. One he loves and hates to listen to. About magical creatures being let loose in the city, and an Obscurial wreaking havoc and almost starting a war between the magic and non-magic world. About an English boy who captured Grindlewald and prevented that from happening.

One week. One week is how long it had taken the dark wizard to escape. One week, and the night before he was to be shipped back to England to face trial, he disappeared. The Congress was investigating it as an inside job, that a fanatic was hiding amongst them and had released Grindlewald.

Picquery kept everything as succinct as possible, supplying minimal details about the events. When she finished, she looked at him hesitantly, asking with her eyes for his own story.

She wants him to explain how the most wanted man in the world had abducted him, assumed his identity and then left him for dead. Rather than answer, he holds his hand out for a vial. Graves has lived out his memories enough times, and would rather not recount this one. She provides a vial with a look of sympathy, but does not attempt to discuss the topic.

He uses her wand to remove the memory, and then Picquery apologizes again (and this time he doesn’t know if it’s for not realizing his absence, or for something else), but makes it clear she expects him back to as soon as he’s able. That they have missed him. She does this without losing her effective, authoritative grace. As usual, he feels immense respect for his President. He responds he will be back as soon as he is relieved from the Hospital.

With their meeting complete, she stands to leave.

“Thank you.” He keeps his voice low, thinking he could never express in such few words his immense gratitude.

At the door, Picquery turns, surprise on her face, as if she had never heard Graves express gratitude. She was right, he hadn’t. She smiles slowly. “I’m not the one to thank. The Scamander boy, the one who captured and unveiled Grindlewald? He’s the one that helped us track you down, with one of his rare magical creatures. If you want to thank someone, you should visit him. He worked hard to find you.”

Graves feels an uneasiness stir in his stomach. He hates being indebted to people, and the thought of being indebted to a British stranger sounds worse than being indebted to one of his fellow aurors. He frowns and nods his head.

After Picquery leaves, Graves considers for a long time what it means to be alive again. He had been so convinced that he had been dead, or in some sort of hell, for such a long time, that sitting in a hospital bed feels like a second chance.

He considers what Picquery had said, about not knowing anyone in the ministry or forming personal relationships, but dismisses it. His job is to regulate the national security of witches and wizards within the United States. It is not to make friends, to go out for drinks, and form personal relations. The reason he had excelled so quickly in the ranks and been promoted to status of Director of Magical Security was because he lived for his job. Would Piquery honestly ask him to withdraw from his dedication to work, to prioritize socialization over their country?

_Picquery should stop meddling._

Graves decides Grindlewald would not have escaped had he been present to watch him. The security at the congress would need to be tightened, with more boundaries and check points set in place.

With Grindlewald gone, but fanatics possibly infesting the guts of the Congress, Graves decides they need to screen their staff to try and figure out who in MACUSA can be trusted. Perhaps this will be a wasted effort, but it is necessary. He begins to brain storm on ways they can monitor magical activity coming and going from the states. Some of the underground seedy bars will have to be infiltrated, to listen for information on dark magic trade markets abroad.

Nine hours later, he has outlined 33 new policies and studies to be conducted by MACUSA upon his return.  His mind is buzzing, while his heart is unstirred. He doesn’t think about the lack of feeling. He keeps scratching his arm or getting up to pace around the room, simply to remind himself he isn’t trapped in another memory. Even then, he still isn’t convinced of reality.

In his sleep, he dreams of being trapped, unable to get out, with sand filling his lungs. He dreams some of his worst memories again and again, and he forgets he had ever left the Vox. Through it all, every time he feels on the edge of giving up again, he’s rescued by a strange face with an awkward laugh.

* * *

 

Things continued on as they had before the Vox incident for the next month of his recovery. He would go to work, be more efficient than ever, decline offers to socialize, and then go home to an empty house to work more and maybe read. Sometimes he would catch himself staring off at something for minutes at a time, and realize it didn’t make a difference, because he didn’t even feel boredom anymore. He would do things dangerously more often – apparating when there was a chance a muggle might spot him, walking too close to cars, taking assignments with high probably of danger. All to remind himself that he wasn’t stuck in the Vox. That today was a new day, and not an old one.

He was more efficient than ever, but perhaps also more closed off. Either way, Madame Picquery must have noticed. She never said anything, but Graves suspected she intuitively knew that his hell was continuing even through his recovery.

She sent him away on a good will dignitary trip. Of course, she couldn’t have known what would happen, or who he would befriend, or the strange life she gave him. But she did change his life, and he thanked her many times in the following years. In retrospect, knowing of Newt’s difficult journey to find him, he believed Picquery had some idea of what would happen when she sent him off.

That’s how he ended up in London two months later, assisting the Ministry of Magic.

He hadn’t desired to come in the first place. Of course, his help was absolutely needed internationally, so he hadn’t had much of a choice. The safety measures he had implemented in the states had been so effective at seeding out dark magic, a number of concerned prominent figures in the UK had requested his expertise. His time abroad was indefinite at the moment, meaning he would only return upon the president’s request, or in case of emergency. His reason for agreeing to the trip at all was self-serving.

Information had surfaced recently that rumors placed Grindlewald back in England, and in London specifically. Graves was eager for the chance to track the wizard down. He refused to be caught by surprise again. This time, he planned to seek out the villain.

However, upon his arrival to England, he was delivered a rather unsavory letter, detailing a set of responsibilities he was less than excited for. Among them included his mandatory attendance to all ministry events, such as galas, fundraisers, and balls. This order was followed by a detailed list of respectable behavior and mannerisms he was expected to adhere to, such that he may “represent the full respect and kinsmanship held between our two countries,” and “provide a good face for The Congress abroad.” This part of the letter, although he shifted the contents to the back of his priorities, drew a dry smile from his lips.

At the bottom of the letter was a note he wasn’t able to comprehend, in Madame President’s flowing, elegant hand writing.

_"Maybe now you will have your chance to say thank you.”_

* * *

 


	2. New Friends

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Graves, the antisocial workaholic, makes some friends. Also he gets a cat.

His work in London kicked off slowly, with his face becoming a regular appearance at Ministry events. By far, it was the most tedious part of his job.

He suffered through the first dignitary function in silence. It had been a boring affair, with only dignitaries and egotistical pure bloods in attendance. He had only spoken when he was actually interested in the conversation, which had happened twice. Most those who attempted conversation (‘So you’re an American, hm?’ or ‘Tell me, what is New York like?’ or ‘So muggle-wizard relationships are banned in America, then? How fascinating.’) had left grumbling about his inhospitality.

The Griffith Benefits Gala the following week ended up far more interesting.

He had spotted the boy staring at him a number of times throughout the evening. For the life of him, he had no idea who he was, but the boy certainly knew him. Every time Graves stared at him directly, he fidgeted uncomfortably and immediately broke eye contact. For the next five minutes or so, the boy would avoid looking at him at all costs, before his eyes would sneakily trail back to look at him again, only to find Graves already eying him curiously. The boy would then once again spasm, caught off guard by being caught, look away and force a smile, as if appearing to be immersed in some conversation. Rinse, wash, repeat.

Graves collected information because, quite honestly, he had nothing better to do. He politely took the dances requested of him, and made small talk to the best of his abilities with all those who spoke with him, but the rest of the night he spent amusedly staring at the boy, enjoying spooking him.

He gauged by the uncomfortable way the boy held his frame, and the way he slumped when talking to anyone around him, he couldn’t be older than 24. From across the room, Graves estimated he was under 6 foot, but couldn’t discern exactly. He had bright green eyes and freckles, and a rather attractive face, if a bit awkward. The boy seemed to suffer from severe social anxiety, or else he was just extremely subservient and antisocial. He almost seemed to be…

Graves attempted to put his finger on the exact right characterization for the boy all night. The boy didn’t stay long, and the next time Graves looked across the room for him, the young stranger had left.

When he apparated back to his temporary lodgings, it struck him on his footsteps, in the form of a stray, dirty kitten. He leaned down to pick the thing up, frowning at it and glancing around for its mother. “You…” He held it up gingerly and examined it head on. “Animal-like. The boy was like an animal. Like a gazelle.” The kitten mewed at him, as if in agreement, and he held its eye contact for a long time. It was a tiny thing, probably the runt of the litter. It appeared to be white underneath a couple layers of dirt and mud, but it was hard to tell. The babe stared him right at the face, meowing loudly to indicate its loneliness. He didn't dwell on the similarities, and instead put it back on the ground.

The thing threw up a riot, rubbing his leg and positively begging to be picked back up. It was a confident little annoyance.

Graves sighed. “I’m pretty sure the muggles have a no-animal policy in this apartment, you should know.” But the kitten stared him down, her fur dirtied but her eyes shining bright. He grumbled and picked the cat back up. “Okay, but if I get kicked out, we’ll both be back on the streets.”

And that is how Percival Graves unexpectedly began his life as a cat person. 

* * *

 

A week later, he was on his way to meet with some ministry staff. The Minister of Magic, Hector Fawley, was excessively unhelpful, too concerned with keeping peace with those who seemed intent on destroying it. Fawley had, at numerous moments, made it clear he thought Graves was an unnecessary addition to their country, and that his work was damaging to the ministry reputation. Graves thought Fawley was likable, but a misguided buffoon.

That morning, his kitten had torn up the couch and peed on his shoes. While he had fixed the damage with some wandless magic, it had left him in a bad mood and fatigued by 9am. He was absolutely not in the mood to be knocked over by some boy with a brief case and gravity defying hair just inside the ministry. However, he managed to catch himself, while the boy went tumbling and landed harshly on the ground. He groaned.

“Watch where you are going boy!” he said in a fit of aggravation, before looking down and meeting the surprised gaze of the gazelle boy from the gala. “It’s…” he stared at the boy in surprise.

“Mr. Graves, ah, I am immensely sorry. I think you were going this way, while I was going that way, and then my friend here was telling me something, and yes.” He ducked his head again and hurriedly brushed himself off, not seeming sorry at all. He didn’t look Graves in the eyes for more than a second or two at a time.

Graves had no idea what ‘friend’ the boy was talking about, as he couldn’t spot anyone nearby. He was struck once again wondering how the boy knew him. “I don’t believe we’ve been acquainted.” The boy had on his friendly, forced smile.

“Yes, we’ve met before, actually. A couple of times. Well, once or twice. The first time you weren’t really you and it was Grindlewald, but then all the times after that, except for the first time, you were, well, asleep. Really I only ever saw you when you were in the Vox. So not really, we haven’t met. It’s nice to meet you officially, Mr. Graves. You look very… healthy.” He babbled in a nonsensical, nervous sort of way.

Graves stared at the boy for a moment, befuddled by his eccentricities. A green, twig like creature peaked at him from underneath the boy’s collar. He was taken aback as it dawned on him. Magical creatures, knowledge about New York and Vox, a British gent? “ _You’re_ Newt Scamander?” He hadn’t meant for his voice to come off as surprised as it did. He truly was shocked that this awkward, gangly, young looking lad could have already developed such an impressive resume. He expected a British hero (as he certainly was after the incident in New York) to be much more pompous. The boy seemed much too modest and shy to be Newt Scamander.

The boy nodded his head, as if this was a common reaction, and he understood it completely. He didn’t look offended. “Right, yes, I am.” He paused, seeming to struggle with what to say. “Well, I really must be going, I’m late for a meeting of sorts, of the utmost importance.” The boy had on a good natured smile as he fidgeted, making and breaking eye contact as if he was on something.

Graves felt bewildered at his behavior. He wondered if he was having this effect on the boy, or if he was always this… strange. After recalling similar mannerisms at the gala, he decided on the latter.

“Wait, Scamander-” and he was going to use this moment to thank him for all of his dedication to helping the states and the president, but then he remembered what he should truly thank him for. Then he understood Picquery’s note in the letter, and all of a sudden the immense debt that Graves owed the boy completely silenced him. And this time, the boy was looking at him curiously, already having walked a few steps from him, half turned. His eyes positively glowed. His lips opened in a half smile, as if he was expecting something.

“Yes, Mr. Graves?” Scamander probably didn’t mean to ask the question in a way that was half impatient, and half amused, but nonetheless it completely shattered all chance of thanks that Graves might have offered.

He stumbled over his thoughts, before he remembered something the President had said. “Given your history, I have a couple of questions I would like to ask you, such that I might utilize your expertise in the future. How can I contact you?” At his question, Scamander dodged his head again, seeming uninterested.

“Ah.. right, yes, well I am actually working on a manuscript at the moment, so I am quite busy. And of course, taking care of my animals is quite time consuming. I don’t know if I would be able to be of much assistance- but you see I’m in such a hurry, late for a meeting and all. Have a nice day.” And the boy was off with a flurry, running up the stairs to go and catch his meeting.

Irritation crept up his spine, and he almost called after the boy, before remembering his own meeting that he was late for and hurrying to attend.

* * *

 

Terror was back in the United Kingdom. Occults had been springing up everywhere throughout the country, with a number of attacks reported from the continent as well. It seemed Grindlewald had taken to once again keeping a low profile, but his fanatical fans had been anything but quiet. Murders of innocents were happening all over the place; some of muggles, others of muggle borns, sometimes just of prominent figures. Never more than one or two in a city, but enough to keep almost every hub of activity in a state of alarm. Even worse was the legal activity. Peaceful meetings that preached of pure blood supremacy, that begged other members not to ruin blood lines. Nothing illegal- simply remarks that demeaned and dehumanized No-Maj’s and their relatives. Groups like this often were just a cover for Grindlewald’s followers, but others were separate but susceptible to his preachings. It was a hell of a lot of trouble.

The worse of it was that Grindlewald wasn’t the worst of it. Even though he seemed to be the biggest threat to national security, with a divided auror force and distracted political attention, other criminals and crime activity had spiked drastically and harming municipalities. All sorts of illegal markets were over-flowing with activity; the sale of potions, magical creatures, house elves, and all other sorts of goods, passed hand to hand illegally over the dark market. And the more criminality spiked, the easier it was for Grindlewald to slink through different locations and wreak havoc unfound. It was a mess.

Even Graves was at a loss with how much work the ministry had under its belt. He started out drafting some rudimentary plans to try to crack down on international potions trading, and he offered some suggestions for quelling public unrest, but the amount of work was stifling.

He was exhausted by the time they broke for lunch, and not in the mood for socializing. When one of the more talkative aurors followed him out, he prepared to reject any offers of friendship that were bound to come his way, frowning at the confident extended hand in front of him.

“Agent Johnivus Weasley, but most of the lads here call me Johnny. Nice to meet you, Graves.” Agent Johnivus was a gigantic, hairy, positively red man, probably nearing the age of fifty. He had a beaming smile and big, ginger hair that he attempted to slick back to little avail, and a gigantic, bushy mustache. The entire look was comical, and his appearances alone made him difficult for anyone to dislike. Perhaps this is why Graves decided he liked the man – he had just the right amount of ridiculousness in his appearance that it was obvious he cultivated the look. At the same time, it wasn’t enough to confront him on it. 

He accepted the hand with a nod, attempting not to wince at the man’s strong hold and lively shake. “Percival Graves, MACUSA Director of Magical Security. It’s a pleasure. I was impressed with your work in there.”

Johnny let out a booming laugh. “That’s a big compliment coming from you, I reckon. You are quite the hard-ass when it comes to working in these parts.” Graves wasn’t sure if he was being insulted, and let out a wry smile. “That’s a good thing, I swear! But I could tell you needed a drink when Fawley interrupted you the last time. You went positively red.” Johnny was laughing again, and Graves felt himself loosen as Johnny put an arm on his back to lead him somewhere out of the ministry.

“That man is incompetent, I don’t know how you get anything done with him.” He said bluntly.

Johnny nodded. “Well, most of us aurors want to hex him most of the time, but the problem is the guy’s so damn likable. The public loves him, and he has a way with words. But I agree with you, Graves. He is incompetent.” Johnny glanced around in a joking manner, seemingly unafraid of being heard. He pointed a bar out across the way. “So what do you say to that drink, comrade?”

Graves looked at the redhead incredulously. “Right now? At 2 in the afternoon? In the middle of a work day? Absolutely not.” Johnny let out another laugh.

“Suit yourself, you can eat while I prepare for the next half of the day.” Graves still wasn’t convinced. “Come on, mate, they served great sandwiches as well, you wuss. Besides, you need some meat on your bones.”

Graves sighed before tugging the man towards the bar. “Fine. But in your case, I think you should lay off the sandwiches yourself. You’re positively gigantic.”

Thus a fantastic friendship was born.

* * *

 

 The next time Newt Scamander drops into his life, it’s at his doorstep on a Sunday. Graves is shocked for a few seconds before nodding and allowing the boy inside. Scamander smiles awkwardly.

“I’m so happy this is the right address. I’ve been up and down the block and quite honestly I thought that Harriette was wrong, this time. But here you are.” Newt made his way four steps into the door before tripping on his cat, catching himself on the wall. “Oh drat.” His eyes lit up. “I do see you have a kitten.”

At this point, Graves and the cat were not on good terms. The cat insisted on being coddled all the time and absolutely punished him for going away to work by attempting to pee on everything. Furthermore, when Graves was home, she wreaked havoc on his personal belonging, chewing on his shoes or his new wand when she saw so fit. She was a picky eater and too cute for her own good, obviously aware of the absolute pristineness of her white coat, which she felt the need to shed on all of his dark clothes.

This made the mewing exchange between Newt and his cat all the stranger – as if the boy barging into his apartment talking about something nonsensical wasn’t odd enough. Newt was mothering his irritating kitten.

For some reason, he didn’t feel embarrassed or annoyed, but instead amused. Usually, he would reprimand a stranger for coming to his private housing unannounced, on a Sunday no less. He had half a mind to scold the boy for abruptly leaving the last time they had met – but he had requested to meet with him again, so who was he to complain? Instead, he decided to let the boy in and see what he wanted. No point in throwing Scamander out without deciphering his potential uses first. “Who is Harriette?” He goes to the couch and folds the newspaper with a wave of his hand to make room for the odd man to sit, which Newt decidedly doesn’t take, instead uncomfortably standing, as if he might dash out the door at any moment.

“Harriette is a Sophoculus. Complicated stuff, really, but truly one of the most amazing creatures I have ever having the pleasure of meeting.” He says this with such normalcy that Graves wanders if the boy is making up the word on the spot. He has certainly never heard of a Sophoculus. “What’s her name, then?” Newt asks as he scratches underneath the cats chin, and Graves feels a spark of jealousy at the way she positively seems to adore the boy, calmly nuzzling his hands, as if she wouldn’t scratch Graves if he tried to do the same thing.

“She doesn’t have one. I just call her cat.” Newt gives Graves a look of absolute frustration, seeming to be offended by his presence.

“She doesn’t have a name? You’ve stolen her identity! What if you get another? Will you call them both cat?” Newt seemed to think Graves absolutely preposterous, which he in return finds absolutely enjoyable. Graves raises his eyebrows.

“I wasn’t planning on getting another cat, so I don’t expect to have that problem.” Scamander ignored him now, taking his time scratching the cat’s belly and trailing a finger down its nose, and scratching its back bone. The kitten went nuts for boy. Finally, Scamander put the kitten down, and she rambled off to Graves to rest on his lap for a content nap.

“You know, you don't come across as an animal person.” Newt said quietly while watching the duo, and Graves had the feeling that he had advanced very much in the boy’s esteem. He was quiet for a while, just watching the nervous man’s face, as he dodgily avoided eye contact.

“Neither do you.” Graves stated dryly. Newt looked at him in surprise, before realizing he was joking and smiling.

“They prefer to be called magical creatures, actually.” Newt corrected lightly, still smiling. Graves watched Newt with raised eyebrows, choosing not to respond to that comment, simply pouring over the interesting boy in his mind. He thought about some of the questions he wanted to ask Newt – how he had found him in the Vox, what were the powers of all of his creatures, if he could help him track down Grindlewald – but Graves had the feeling if he asked any of them, the boy would run away. It was a gut feeling, that the boy's heart was halfway out the door and looking for a chance to run. 

Besides, watching the boy was amusing enough. It almost felt relaxing to not think about work, or revenge, for once.

“What is a Sophoculus?” He chose the next most interesting topic instead, watching Scamander’s eyes light up.

“One of the rarest and wisest creatures I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting.” Newt paused, as if assessing him, glancing down at the cat, and then back up to him, before breaking eye contact again and stuttering out a question. “Do- do you want to meet one?” He looked at Graves in such an earnest manner, even if Graves had no interest at all he would have said yes.

He nodded. “Why not?”

Newt positively glowed. He took his suit case and placed it on the ground. “Right then.” He glanced up at Graves a final time before opening the clasps. Sounds of a jungle immediately escaped the case, and Graves’ interest is effectively piqued. “Follow me, Mr. Graves.” Scamander ducked inside, climbing down a ladder to a den below.

When Graves climbed down a cramped ladder space, he was not prepared for the gigantic den below. He was even less prepared for the scurrying of amazing magical creatures underfoot. He looked around with raised eyebrows, spotting something that looked like a badger (later identified as a niffler), some rolling puffskeins, and all other sorts of unknowns. He heard sounds of many more from outside, but he is more taken aback by the smiling man in front of him, running his hand down the side of (what Graves can only assume to be) Harriette.

The Sophoculus is like no creature Graves had ever seen. Its long, whispy black tail wrapped around Scamander’s arm and neck possessively, while it seemed content to rest in his arms and gave no indication of being awake. It’s torso link was about two feet of black feathers, with two long wings wrapped around its body like a cocoon or a bat. It’s face – or rather, snout – was long as well, like an ant eater, with two large hoods (almost like eye lids) covering the spot where its eyes should be. It looked as though the hoods were molded over and the creature was blind. The feathers turned to bristles at its neck, shiny but almost appearing sharp in texture. “She’s beautiful, isn’t she?” Newt slowly ran his free hand down the beast’s head, fingers interweaving with its bristles and into its feathers. “In ancient times, the Sophoculus was worshipped as a wise being of immense knowledge by some of the magical indigenous tribes of the Australian outback.” Newt glanced up. “You can come closer, if you like. Harriette already likes you. She helped us find you.” His voice is shy, and Graves slowly moves from his spot to come closer to Scamander and the beast.

“How?” He’s close enough to touch the thing now, but he’s content to watch Scamander groom it. It felt as though touching it would ruin the two’s tranquility. He takes note of the brit’s dainty fingers as they run through Harriette’s pelt.

“The Sophoculus is completely blind and deaf, but it has an amazing sense of the world around it. Even without being able to see or hear, it can sense danger or food from a distance.” Newt’s hand stopped. “It’s also an incredible tracker. If you ask it in the correct way, and provide an item that belongs to a missing person, it will grow in size and fly to the item’s owner, using the aura left behind to find them.” Scamander began to pet it again, running his hand over the hood of its eyes gently. “We used her to find you.” Graves listened in fascination, almost unable to believe that the unthreatening mass in front of him possesses that sort of power. His eyes widened.

“It can track anyone?” He tried to keep his tone nonchalant, but a hint of intensity remained. Newt glanced at him in a knowing manner.

“Well, it’s complicated. There’s a lot of preparation that goes into asking a Sophoculus to track someone down. There’s a lot of requirements…” Newt looked up momentarily and then back down quickly. “One is that you must have good intentions for the person you’re looking for. Harriette would never assist in tracking down someone for the wrong reasons.”Graves' excitement settled to its usual numbness. He had the feeling Newt wasn’t telling him everything, but let the topic drop. “Do you want to pet her?”

Graves looked at Newt curiously, before taking a step closer and slowly raising his hand. Gingerly, he ran his fingers down the creature’s spine. Harriette remained completely unresponsive. “An amazing creature. Where did you find her?”

Newt watched him with intensity, waiting for Graves to finish before moving to put the creature in a tree that grew out of the ground. The creature endured the transfer with the minimal amount of movement, wrapping its tail and around the branch and almost molding to it. “Tanzania. Some traders were selling her off as another creature. I purchased her, although they couldn’t have known that she was worth hundreds of times the price on any other market. She’s one of the last of her kind, although no one knows where the rest have gone. They just disappear. None have ever been reported as young or old. They are simply becoming rarer.” Newt watched her for another second before turning back to Graves in an official manner. “Now, if you don’t mind…” He hesitated. “I was wondering if I could ask you a couple of questions.”

Graves tensed up, somewhat confused by the jarring transition. He supposed it was only natural that the boy had his reasons for coming. “Ask and we will see.”

Newt hesitated, before going over to a desk with a number of ingredients on it to lean against. He gestured to a chair for Graves to sit. Graves stayed standing. “The last incidence of a someone being rescued from Vox was in the 1870s, more than 50 years ago.” Graves grunted, losing interest in the conversation quickly. Scamander fidgeted. “Of course, they died ten years after the rescue, from- ” the boy swallowed as his voice caught. “They committed suicide.”

Graves frowned but didn’t say anything, looking around the room for a distraction. He wasn't surprised to hear another survivor had committed suicide, but it was difficult to hear nonetheless. This was the last discussion he wanted to have. Scamander continued. “Of course, notes on the incident and their experience are detailed, but still antiquated. The study of the substance has been sparse, and I only knew of it by chance. I oversaw a failed rescue a couple of years ago from a different pit.” His voice had quieted. “It is an incredibly interesting parasite, and if – if you were able, I was wondering if I could ask you some questions on the experience.”

Graves wandered over to the chair and sat as Scamander, watching creatures scurry in and out of the den, and seeing the wonders that walked and trotted along outside. He wanted to investigate Scamander’s world, and not to think about his experience in the Vox.

Newt’s eyes kept flickering to Graves, but he seemed to realize the man wasn’t going to answer. “Of course, if not, that’s completely fine too. Well then, I mean, it’s not crucial. I understand it can be very difficult – and invasive – sorry, I shouldn’t have asked.” Scamander’s voice was heavy with guilt, his head hanging. Graves had the feeling that his answer to Scamander's request would decide whether he was ever to come in this room or to meet Scamander again. 

Graves sighed. “Alright.”

Newt’s ears piqued up first, with his head following. “Alright?”

Graves met the boys gaze and stood up. “Not today, but I’ll tell you about it. But I want you to do something for me as well.” He tucked his hands in his pockets as the gangly man scampered up, knocking some books over.

“Of course. What, what would you like me to do?”

Graves smirked. “Continue introducing me to your fantastic beasts, Mr. Scamander.”

“Oh... Well then.” And through the fray of his wild hair, the boy’s eyes shone, almost impish. A smile tugged at his lips but then he quickly glanced in every which direction that wasn’t Graves. “We have ourselves a deal then, Mr. Graves.”

Graves exhaled slowly. “Come on, kid. You’ve disturbed my Saturday enough for one day. I have work to do.”

Scamander laughed at the name. “Kid? I hope you know I’ve turned thirty just recently.”

Graves raised his eyebrows. “You? Thirty? I pegged you at 24, tops. You’re still a kid, either way.” He glanced at a scurrying creature and raised his eyebrows at it. “Much too young to have so many children, anyhow.”

Scamander laughed and seemed to pause to think about his next words, turning them over in his mouth with a grin. “I, ah, started at a young age.”

And that had Graves whipping around, but Newt was already climbing up the ladder out of sight.

“Come on then, Old Man!”

Graves laughed.


End file.
